


Triptych- Present

by LoveChilde



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Cold, Collection: Purimgifts Day 2, Gen, Statecraft is a circus, Stress Relief, Whining, happy marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:19:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveChilde/pseuds/LoveChilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarice Orsini may not be 'in love' with her husband, but she does love him. Lorenzo is plagued by the demands of his office, and by an unpleasant head cold. If kissing a cold, clammy man isn't love, what is?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triptych- Present

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Umbralpilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbralpilot/gifts).



To this day, Clarice isn’t sure she is in love with her husband. She loves him, is fond of him, enjoys his company, and welcomes his touch, which is far more than she ever expected, but is she in love with him, as court poetry describes it? Would she follow him to the ends of the Earth? Unlikely. For one thing, there are too many children, now. For another, there is the City, and someone would need to keep an eye on it, should Lorenzo decide to travel for some unknown reason. 

No, she is probably not really in love with him. But she must admit, he has his moments.

“Woman, I am plagued!” He bursts into her chambers uninvited and throws himself on her day-sofa, disturbing a cat and three cushions. “Plagued, I tell you!”

“Lorenzo!” Clarice drops her embroidery as her ladies scatter and flutter about, and crosses the room to his side faster than should be possible, given her cumbersome skirts. “Are you ill, husband?” One should not throw around words like ‘plague’ so lightly, although it’s not plague season at all. In fact it is a cold, drizzly winter, and her husband looks about as cold and drizzly, flushed, his hair a little limp. “What is it, Lorenzo?” She silently motions for her ladies to leave, and kneels by him, resting a cool hand on his forehead. “You’ve a fever. I shall send for the physician.”

“No, don’t.” Lorenzo protests, then sneezes. “He’ll only bleed me or purge me or some other horrible thing. I only need to be away from my hearing chamber for a while, and hear something pleasant.” He coughs. “And maybe have a warm posset to drink?”

Clarice can’t hold back a small smile. He is much like their oldest daughter when she’d rather stay abed than go to her lessons. “I will send for mulled wine and sweetened ice, either or both might help.” Though Lorenzo sounds rather bad, she has seen enough illness in her life to know it’s probably nothing serious. “And you can tell me all your troubles.”

“That would be excellent. I do love you, Clarice.” Perhaps he is worse off than she thought; he is not generally given to spontaneous declarations of love. She smiles at him again, however. This should be encouraged, her mother taught her, and she learned well.

“And I you, my love. Even when you are unwell and complaining.” She walks to the door and sends a hovering page to the kitchen. “Complain away, though, feel free.” She settles herself in a chair, attentive. 

“Why should I not complain, when I am besieged on all sides? I have the Papal emissary on one hand, and Count Riario slinking about, scheming in dark corners. I have the Jewish merchants talking endlessly of taxes and quotas and exchange rates, as if they can change anything-” Clarice knows quite well just how powerful the Jews of Florence are, how important their support is to the Medici bank. The merchants and money-lenders are close friends to the Medicis, and she has learned to respect them. She nods, as Lorenzo trails off, most likely figuring in his head. He tends to do that sometimes, living more among numbers than words. 

“Is that all, husband? You have the Pope and the Jews at your door daily.” She prods him gently, and he rolls his eyes at her. 

“I do! And they are tiresome, all of them. My dependency on them is tiresome. But today I have a new horror. An emissary from the East, from Persia, he says, come to see if they can set up a formal trade outpost here. I do like their fabrics and spices, but this person- a _wazir_ , he says his title is, some sort of advisor to the king- I can already see he’ll be a problem.”

“Greedy?” Formal trade relations are a slippery slope, which could lead to exclusivity issues, shoddy goods, high commissions...Clarice learned the business of Florence well before her marriage, and has learned more since. She knows it about as well as Lorenzo does, those parts of it which are not exclusive to males, and more than him about the important things that only women find interesting. 

“Greedy, grabby, dressed in silks that would make any lady jealous. He has an evil air about him.” Lorenzo frowns, and Clarice takes note. Lorenzo isn’t usually given to disliking foreigners like this; she’ll keep an extra-sharp eye on this advisor to the king. Then Lorenzo sneezes again, and heaves a deep sigh. “I feel terrible. And on top of everything I have the crazy Maestro Da Vinci, threatening to blow this city to Kingdom Come if any of his experiments go wrong.” He shakes his head, “The man is a genius, I don’t doubt, but harnessing his mind is much like harnessing a wild horse.”

“Dangerous and potentially painful?” She quirks an eyebrow, amused. She rather likes the Maestro, even if he is most likely insane, and even more likely, a complete heretic. 

“Yes.” Lorenzo wheezes and grins despite his discomfort, “But if you succeed, magnificent. He could do great things for Florence. 

“I’m sure we could manage him. I’ll help.” It is only when he is thus distracted that she can show herself as his equal, a woman worthy of Il Magnifico, without fear.  
By the time the servant returns with mulled wine, Lorenzo is fast asleep his mouth is slightly open, his brow wrinkled as in deep thought. The room smells of cinnamon and cloves, Persian spice in the wine; maybe the _wazir_ isn’t all bad. 

She kisses him lightly, his lips fever-hot against hers, drops another kiss on his forehead, and settles down to continue her embroidery and wait until Lorenzo wakes Then, they shall make plans for the city... 

No, Clarice Orsini isn’t in love with her husband. But if kissing a clammy, fevered forehead isn’t love, then she truly doesn’t know what is. 

**Author's Note:**

> The word 'vizier', adapted from Arabic and Turkish _wazir_ and its various spellings, didn't enter the English language until about a century after this story takes place. However, they're all technically speaking the old Florentine dialect which later became Italian anyway, so humor me here.


End file.
